


Mercury

by knightcaptain



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Gen, Human Astral, Mythology - Freeform, Pitioss Theory, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2018-11-19 20:08:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11320782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightcaptain/pseuds/knightcaptain
Summary: Dawn breaks over the horizon. Lucis grieves for its king, while Niflheim descends into chaos. A god is stripped of his power and pride, left to grapple with mortality and cloying dreams of diamond dust.





	1. The Trial of Ifrit

It is discovered that an empire can fall within a single night.

It is the last night of the last ten years. As soon as the first ray of dawn pierces the sky, angry auburn awakened from slumber, Niflheim begins a dark descent. It is a graceless thing that the fallen Shiva watches with empty eyes from deep within the snowy tundra of Ghorovas Rift.

Far across Eos, on the other side of the world, Lucis recovers. People make the pilgrimage home where the Chosen King slumbers forever, protected by all the warmth of his final resting place. Lunafreya Nox Fleuret, the Oracle, lays beside him. A loyal partner until death, and in the Beyond. The Shield stands by Noctis' side - though what he protects remains unclear to the thousands that come to kiss the coffin - until the king of kings is lowered into the depths of the earth. 

And far from Eos, far above life and death, an astral is cast from home.

* * *

Bahamut’s gaze is cold, but Ifrit pays him no mind. He watches the one protected by shadows, her dark hair falling over still shoulders. There is an angry light in his eyes.

“The Master of the Starscourge,” Ramuh thunders. “What have you to say for yourself, at the very end?”

_Watch me._

“Niflheim has fallen, Ardyn Lucis Caelum is scattered in the winds of the Beyond.” Bahamut’s voice is hard steel. “The Chosen King, the last of the Lucian kings, now rests at peace with the fallen daughter of Tenebrae.”

The shadowed figure stirs, at the corner of Ifrit’s vision. His jaw tightens. “The beloved Oracle,” he says, voice like silk. “Thousands adored her, admired her. She was the avatar of a perfected humanity - an ideal to be reached for and attained. Even the gods could find none to compare.”

“You rained Scourge on Man, laid the Accursed’s path,” Titan’s voice shakes. “It was you who delivered the blade to her heart, not he of Lucis.”

Ifrit jerks his chin, defiant. Ebony tresses fall away from a youthful face, twisted permanently with immortal rage. “Is the Accursed not a man of his own choices?”

"Indeed." Ramuh's gaze, however, remains unchanged. "And yet..."

“You defiled the very stars.” Bahamut’s wings groan ominously. “Have you no regret in your soul?”

The Infernian’s lips curl into a smile, brittle. “None. Do away with me as you please.”

The Dragon King’s gaze is soft, but his voice is sharp and precise, meant to cut and sever.

“Very well.”

* * *

Two voices, in the dark. One forged in fire, while the other remains distant -- behind ice.

“You will not say a word? The trial lapsed without your due judgment.”

“The Hallowed Father has delivered justice. You have nothing to gain from this.”

He spits fire, blazing like the sun. Emerald eyes look not upon him, but down below, at mankind.

“I will only hear judgment from thee. Only you are worthy, being my greatest foil. Speak your heart’s truest bitterness upon my ears.”

“There is nothing to be said. Too much blood was shed.”

“And? There is more.”

“Only cruel farewell, O God of War.”

Silence befalls them both, enveloping him in wordless madness. And then he is gone in a burst of fire, scorching the spot where he stood.

She lowers herself on one knee, hand reaching out --

Fingers sink into warm ash. Cold lips quiver beneath the weight of private, profound sorrow. 

"Pyreburner. Vanquished, at last."


	2. Shadow of a Sleeping King

Gladiolus counts each clink of steel on stone.

The sculptor works away in wordless concentration. The sound of her purposed strikes echo throughout the citadel, like the ticking of a clock, from dawn until dusk. According to Ignis, she’d been learning for years under the tutelage of her late father, who died during the Decade of Darkness. Mauled to death by daemons, Gladiolus was told, when his torch burned out for no good reason.

_Clink. Clink. Clink._

She’d only been fourteen, at the time, and struck the nearest stone when the news reached her. The body couldn’t be buried, she was told. It was far too dangerous to make an attempt, to brave the hordes of the night.

Gladio watches her expression, seemingly set in stone, more than the actual work itself. Barely a droplet of sweat. Each movement swift, void of hesitation and uncertainty. She has been doing this for a long time. That much, he can tell.

Still, the rock remains formless, though a week has passed since the first break of dawn. They only thought to hire a sculptor after laying his body to rest, encasing it in fine wood.

_Clink. Clink._

He waits to recognise the face being shaped.

_Clink. Clink. Clink._

He does not wish to forget the face of one he loves.

Loved.

Gladiolus continues to count.

* * *

Someone was kind enough to open up a bar just a few blocks down from the citadel, Cor Leonis observes that same morning before departing for the wilds beyond.

Gladio receives this news with great interest. He perks up -- a rare sight for the fallen king’s Shield nowadays -- and leaves his post for the little establishment later that evening. Outside the citadel is a world he has grown used to: the streets adorned with traces of chaos, angry scorch marks left behind by the great Infernian of old, and broken concrete and granite littered about. Gravel and debris crunch beneath the weight of his boot as he walks.

Some people acknowledge him as he passes them by: Lucians, by the looks of it, who have turned homeward after the breaking of first dawn. Gladio sees it in their faces -- recognition, gratitude, and the ashen look of grief with Noctis’ name on their lips. They have come home, but to a whole new world.

He hears whispers of pilgrims from the outer Lucian regions, too. Those not native to Insomnia make the pilgrimage to the capital every other day. A steady stream of people from all over -- Galahd and other provinces -- trickle through the gates, bearing flowers, gifts, offerings in preparation of the funeral fast approaching. Gladio turns his mind from the thought, finding farewells impossible at this point, and fixates instead on the bar on the corner of the street.

He enters and is greeted by a mostly vacant establishment. Boxes are left in disarray, strewn everywhere, half-opened and some turned over. It doesn’t take Gladio long to realise this is a repurposed diner, converted into a rugged harbour for liquor and spirits. Maybe alcohol is easier to stock than meat and poultry -- hunting saw a great decline over the past decade, after all, with daemons growing bolder and more vicious the longer Ardyn had lingered on Eos.

A lanky youngster stands behind the counter, wiping absently at a whiskey glass. Brown eyes flicker in Gladio’s direction, widen in realisation, and suddenly the young man is at full attention.

“You’re …”

Gladio shakes his head. “Yeah. Is this place open?” If Cor’s intel doesn’t come through, Gladio is certain there’ll be hell to pay. He’s raring for a good drink, for the burn of liquid gold against the back of his throat. It’s been a while.

“‘Course,” the boy answers, sheepish. “Though, Pops headed back out to Hammerhead to get the rest of our stuff. We’re, uh, still putting this place together.”

The Shield approaches the counter, sliding atop a bar stool. “I can see that.” He props arms on the table, crossing them and leaning forward. He meets the boy’s even gaze. “Used to live here?”

“Nah,” the youngster shakes his head, wiping at his nose after setting the glass down. “Pops, though. Yeah. Me? I was born in Hammerhead.”

“Is that right? You got a name?” Gladio tilts his head. “And something to drink?”

“Rhys.” He disappears behind the bar, rummaging for a moment. “We only got whiskey. Sorry.”

“I’ll take it, Rhys. I don’t got expensive taste,” Gladio offers. He thinks he hears a soft snort, and then Rhys reappears, drawing himself to his full height with a bottle in hand.

The boy offers the warrior a glass filled halfway with amber liquid, and slides it across the counter absently. Gladio notices the kid’s unwavering gaze, afire with interest. Throat bobbing with something yearning to be said. “I think I seen you around before. With the other two guys, yeah?”

“Sure.” He presses the glass to his lips and takes a sip, followed by a mouthful. “Ignis and Prompto.”

“And Noc-- the king.” Rhys gulps. Gladio’s shoulders freeze with tension. “I don’ mean to pry, sir. But you guys seemed close.”

A pause. Gladio clears this throat, averting his gaze. “It’s fine. We were. Nothin’ much else to say about it, other than that.”

“Are you sad?”

The question is bursting with innocence, and a certain kind of sincerity that reaches Gladio effortlessly through the thick haze of his mind -- warm to the touch. The former Shield sets the glass down on the counter, lips curling into a smile. Rueful. “Saddest I’ve ever been.”

Rhys watches him without attempting to mask his sympathy. His voice is thick -- as though it carries tears and is heavy with the weight of them. But apart from that lone indication, the rest of his expression remains unbothered, unmoved. “Mom died back then, too. _Daemons_ , or whatever. Pops doesn’t talk about it unless he’s piss drunk.”

Gladio returns his gaze to the boy, brows coming together in a slight frown. “Shit. How old were you?”

Rhys shrugs, picking up another glass. He starts wiping at it vigorously. “Old enough to remember. Old enough for it to hurt.”

“Hm. Sorry to hear that.”

“I’m sorry for you, too.” Rhys regards him with a sad smile. “Maybe you could get the rest of those daemons out there, huh? For your friend.”

Gladio finishes the whiskey in a single mouthful, at last. His throat is burning, and there is a tremor in his voice as he speaks.

“Maybe. For your mother, too.” He gets up, reaching into his back pocket for some money. “Here--”

“Nah, hey.” Rhys gestures vaguely, smile turning warm. Wistful, even. “Forget that. We’re not even officially opened yet.”

“Tch. You take my money,” Gladio says gruffly, laying out several gil before the kid. “And you take care of your Pops. Ya hear me?”

Rhys ducks his head, as though embarrassed. “Thanks, sir. ...With my life, sir.”

By the time the boy’s words reach him, Gladio is already halfway out the door, forcefully swallowing the agony lodged in his throat. “Good.”

The sun welcomes him back into the open with its unfamiliar, inviting warmth.

* * *

Hammerhead is quiet.

The sun hangs high, blazing as if trying to make up for its ten-year absence. The garage’s shutters are pulled up completely, welcoming all who require a quick refuel or a fix up. Cindy Aurum stands at the entrance, waving a truck in as it reverses, engine groaning like a tired old man. Its tires are stained with mud and grass, having made a trip to Insomnia last night in the rain.

Out pops a pudgy, middle-aged man wearing a battered apron, once the truck shudders its last breath and rests at last. Nearby, Cindy’s arranged a few moving boxes, recklessly taped together in the heat of the moment. Just three days ago, Hammerhead’s last merchant made a decision to return home to Insomnia.

She watches him with a wistful smile as he approaches her. The smile quickly turns into a grin, steeled with effort, as he waves. She waves back.

“Just a few more heavy boxes is all,” he proclaims in relief, wiping the sweat from his brow. “I got a little place set up in the capital. So all of this -- it’s headed back there.”

“Aw, Jonesy,” Cindy beams at him. “I’m really gonna miss ya. Why don’t ya let me help? I’m headed there anyways -- official city business an’ all that. I’ll drive. Ya look tired.”

“Official?” Jonesy’s moustache ripples with interest. He sets his hands on his belly -- a force of habit whenever he grows relaxed enough around people. “Now that’s a real upgrade, Miss Aurum. Mighty nice.”

They load up the boxes in record time, before they make their way over to his convenience store. He’d been Cindy and Cid’s neighbour for as long as she can remember, often popping by to offer the master mechanic and his talented granddaughter a few drinks “on the house, of course.”

The mechanic chortles as they walk side by side, shrugging off the heavy compliment. “Eh. Been helpin’ those boys for years, now. That old royal Regalia? Granddad and I used to service her every other month.” Sniffs. “Too bad it’s buried in Niff territory.”

The short man leads the way and pushes the door open, chuckling as he does so. The old wood creaks, almost as if in complaint. The warm breeze of summer slips in after them both, through the open front door of his little convenience store. It’s almost completely vacated of its sundries and cheap furniture now, only standing as a landmark bearing some cherished history and memories from before the Scourge enveloped the sky. The sight of it -- dirty floors that never quite managed to stay clean for more than a week at a time, the worn counter where he stood with a smile each day -- causes nostalgia and a distant sort of sadness to well up inside his chest. He’d been here for so long, even before the Darkness, and for the longest time Hammerhead had been home to him and his boy.

“Is that right? Well, rest her soul, she was a beauty.” He picks up a box, filled with odds and ends and a worn cash register. Just a few more items to go and his checklist is finished. All ticked off.

“Aye, she was,” Cindy mourns. “But I reckon they’ll put together somethin’ ten times better in due time. Though there’s no king to ride in it.” There is a twinge of regret in her voice.

Jonesy bows his head, slight. Outside, the afternoon burns as if it had never left them. It feels almost wrong to be enjoying the weather like this, when he considers the price paid to retrieve it and tear open a hole in the dark to let the light in again. “He did right by all of us, didn’t he? I remember seein’ him here … just a kid, he was. And then he came back, after the sun set and didn’t rise again.”

Cindy adjusts her cap, gaze to the ground. “Ah. He knew -- lemme tell ya, he was the most prepared out of everyone around him.”

Jonesy is about to reply, perhaps say something about honouring that sacrifice, when a sound coming from deep within the storeroom startles them both. A groan of pain, muffled behind closed door. He nearly drops his box right there and then, and looks up at Cindy. She's worrying her bottom lip, brows furrowed in suspicion as her gaze slowly slides over to him.

“Say, Jonesy… didja let someone squat here?”

“Not that I recall,” the older man mumbles, colour draining from his cheeks. “Rhys went ahead to the capital yesterday.”

“Yeah, that sure as heck is what I thought,” Cindy mutters, a hand coming to rest on the gun at her hip. “Now, with that in mind --

“Put that box down before ya hurt yaself and follow my lead, J.”

* * *

The last thing Ifrit hears is the Glacian’s gentle whisper. Her words don’t quite reach him; he hears only one thing, over and over: _Pyreburner_. The name is acid against his soul, but he cannot shut her voice away -- so he stumbles in the dark, blinded to all senses, and curses aloud.

It does not feel like the Void, and yet it is certainly not the Beyond, and so he walks ceaselessly, trying to find something to hold onto, to grapple with, instead of the deafening nothingness ahead. Even the air is still, dead, with not even the slightest breeze.

He is cold, too. Ifrit grits his teeth, steam rising from every breath, suppressing violent shivers. It takes him perhaps an eternity, but he gradually begins hearing voices in the distance. Several voices, in fact, on the other side of a wall he cannot see. He keeps walking, unable to summon the strength to speak, or call out to these lingering strangers. Who are they? Messengers? Faeries?

“So the Draconian decides on endless … endless torment in the form of oblivion,” Ifrit announces, to no one in particular. “And the people worship him and say he is incapable of cruelty.”

He expects nothing but the echo of his own voice to answer his grumbling. There is, after all, no one but he in this personal prison. And then, like lightning out of the sky, a voice strikes --

“This is not thy path to walk forever.”

Ifrit spins at the timbre of that voice. It is unmistakable -- “ _Bahamut_.” But it is not the sight of a great dragon in the sky that greets him, this time. A man looking to be in his mid-thirties steps out of seemingly nowhere, dressed in full black. The sight reminds Ifrit of the Chosen King, stepping up to his throne of bones that fateful last night. He wonders, distractedly, if this is meant to provoke him further.

Bahamut’s gaze is steady. “I am here to say farewell.”

“Spare me with your pretense.” Ifrit sneers at the Astral. “You are here to gloat.”

“And again, you presume the worst of everything around you.”

He jerks his chin, wielding a glare. “Dare you tell me it’s not true?”

“I do indeed.” Steel in his voice. Bahamut takes a step forward. “Stand down, Ifrit. I am not your enemy.”

Ifrit’s laugh is sharp, haphazard -- like shattering glass. “You _jest_ , after all this time? Was it not you who laid the final judgment on her and sent her to the Underworld? Was it not you who turned your gaze when I told you about the Scourge, seeping under her _skin_ , into her _eyes_ \--”

“ _Ifrit_.”

“Do not call me by my name,” Ifrit snarls, hands clenching into trembling fists. “You let her _die_. All of you did -- perhaps except Leviathan --”

Bahamut shakes his head. “She defiled her own divinity with the touch of a mortal. Their union was forbidden, and this she knew. Yet, she --”

“The man was a serpent that charmed her ceaselessly.” Another step forward. “He fed her with a promise of a life to be had, knowing full well that man and god cannot be as one -- not in the way they intended. It was not her fault --”

“She _loved_ him,” Bahamut’s gaze flickers away. He turns his back to Ifrit, head bowed. Whatever thoughts swirl in the mind of the Hallowed Father remain shrouded to the Infernian. He takes the chance to step closer. “She bears the blame as much as the unfortunate mortal who --”

“ _Don’t_.” His voice is hollow. Eyes fixate on Bahamut’s head -- so close. He wants to reach out, touch a burning palm to the back of his skull. “I was there. I saw what he did.”

Bahamut’s shoulders lift momentarily. “It was unheard of. To let a mortal tread the stars as he did…” Exhale. “Enough. I am not here to speak of Eos’ crimes.”

“It seems that neither am I.”

It is all the warning he gives Bahamut. Ifrit lunges at the taller man in a swift, wild motion, intending to topple. For a second it seems like he’s achieved the element of surprise: Bahamut is slow to turn, grey eyes looking over sunken shoulder. Resignation in every wrinkle, every grey hair.

The moment Ifrit’s hands land on Bahamut’s collar, grey steel flashes in those orbs -- devoid of compassion, of patience, of the love he bears for a fallen brother.

Bahamut’s palms slam into Ifrit’s chest. Thunder booms, somewhere inside him, and he is sent flying -- a discarded doll. Before he touches the ground, he is stopped mid-flight by strong hands. The impact shocks him, chases the air from out his lungs in a pained whine. Bahamut clutches the back of his neck, fingers digging into flesh. Ifrit lets out an anguished sound.

“This is your fate,” Bahamut speaks, soft against his ear. “You will be stripped of power and pride, made to walk the earth she loved.”

“No.” Strength leaves the Infernian, replaced with cold dread. “You can’t --”

“ _Scourgebringer_. Thou shalt submit to the woes of mortality, the finite journey ahead, partake in the soul’s reflection, and perhaps learn something before you pass into the Beyond forevermore.”

“No, no, no! You can’t do this to me, vile lizard --” He thrashes in the grip of a god, heart hammering. Inside, a firestorm comes to heel, dwindling rapidly. “ _Unhand_ me. Let me serve my penance in the dark!”

“‘Twould be a mercy most undeserved.” Bahamut lets him peer into the darkness beyond. “Call out to heaven, and we shall not answer. Never again will your dead flame burn and devour --”

“Stop!”

“Farewell, brother.”

“ _Bahamut_!”

The Dragon King flings him towards the hungry shadows, towards voices that begin to take form, that escalate until they are ringing and screaming in his ears.

_“Don’t ya move an inch, kid, unless you want a bullet tearing through ya right this instant!”_

* * *

The giant, forged from dark iron, succumbs under the force of Gladio’s strike. The greatsword sinks right through the daemon and lodges itself into the soil underneath, barely suffering a scratch from the ordeal.

Scourge and form dissipate after mere seconds, and Gladio inspects his weapon with a satisfied curl of his lips. He watches his reflection, seeing the sweat roll down the sides of his face, and lets out a tired chuckle. “Still got it.”

“Hey. When you’re done playing with these stragglers, you might wanna check your phone.”

Gladio tilts his head to the side. A flash of silver hair, and a red scarf, comes into view. “Aranea?”

The dragoon clicks her tongue, making her way over to him from the roadside. A car rests just several feet away from her: two smartly dressed men await her in the driver and passenger seats. Biggs and Wedge? Gladio gets to his feet and turns to greet Aranea with a light wave of his hand. “You followin’ me?”

“Conclusions. You are jumping to them.” Aranea shakes her head. “The advisor’s looking for you. I thought I might cover more ground than if he went in blind to recover his friend.”

Gladio frowns. “He’s --” Aranea’s eyes flash with mischief, and he forgets it, electing instead to roll his eyes. “Right. So how much he pay you to run this shitty errand?”

Aranea gives him a look. “I could always drive back to Insomnia without you.”

Hands are raised in mock surrender. “Alright, shit.” He fishes his phone out of his pocket and peers down at the screen. “Ah. Five missed calls. A bunch of gibberish over text.”

“That Iron Giant gave you more trouble than you could handle?” Aranea is already walking back to the car, waving at Biggs and Wedge to start the ignition. The vehicle roars to life, and Gladio reaches for his greatsword.

“Nah. I took my time. Savoured it,” he says, trudging after her. “Soon, there’ll be no more of these bastards to suffer my blade.”

“Or your pent up emotions.”

He makes an offended noise. “That ain’t your concern.”

Aranea looks at him over her shoulder, uninterested. “Like I wanted to pry.”

“You gonna be this mouthy the whole ride back?” Gladio asks, setting his weapon at the back of the car. “Biggs, Wedge.”

“Sir,” the two of them answer in unison.

“It’s my car, Amicitia.” Aranea settles herself nicely, making sure to leave as little leg room for him as possible. “ _My_ rules.”

Gladio mutters indistinctly under his breath, before reluctantly climbing aboard beside her. The car shudders and begins to move. Gladio lets his irritation scatter in the wind, and finds it in himself to finally relax. “The Lucian nobility have probably arrived, and Iggy needs someone to do crowd control.”

“Uh huh.” Aranea contemplates her nails. “It’s a heck of a lot of people gathering in a crumbling city.”

“We’re rebuilding as fast as we can. Maybe you should stick around and help if it’ll speed things up,” Gladio challenges, without fire.

“You don’t have enough money for that kind of job.” Aranea smirks. “I’m just here to pay my respects.”

Gladio snorts. “That’s a first.”

“Watch it. That door beside you isn’t locked.”

They both laugh at the same time. Gladio stretches, feeling tension burn in his muscles. He’d spent the entire afternoon hunting daemons and monsters, clearing his mind under the pretense of clearing roads for travelers and those seeking to attend the funeral in Insomnia.

“You should see someone if it’s bothering you so much,” Aranea says, after a long time.

“Nah.” Gladio runs a hand through his hair, damp with sweat. “Good workouts like these do more for me than sitting in a chair with a shrink ever will.”

Aranea shrugs. “I suppose. If it worked for Shortcake, maybe it’ll work for you.”

“Oh, yeah,” Gladio nods, slow. “You spent all that time with him in the mountains, didn’t you? He mentioned something about Magitek factories and … a giant dick.”

She laughs, a bursting sound that takes him by surprise. “More or less.” She reclines against her seat. “We made a whole fucking mess of the place. He’ll tell you if you ask.”

“Yeah. Thanks, by the way. For taking care of him.”

She waves him off, features twisted in disgust. “Please, let’s not get emotional or heartfelt. Besides,” she glances at Gladio, frowning slightly, “that bitch Ardyn caught him after we parted ways. If anything, I feel guilty.”

Gladio’s eyebrows lift. “You --”

“Shut up, or I’m throwing you out.”

He seals his lips for the rest of the trip, though he makes sure she notices the shit-eating grin plastered on his face until they reach the gates of Insomnia.

* * *

“Gladio.” Ignis waits for him at the top of the citadel steps. “I called you four times.”

“Five,” Gladio throws back as he steps off the car.

“That last one was an accident.” Ignis adjusts his glasses, even though the action benefits him little. “Aranea found you, I gather.”

“You’re welcome,” Aranea calls out from the car. “If there’s nothing else, me and the boys are gonna jet and settle in.”

Ignis inclines his head. “Thank you, Aranea. You didn’t have to offer to bring him back, but --”

“Wait --” Gladio turns, mouth hanging open, but the car’s already a speck in the distance. He thinks he can still see Aranea’s hair, whipping about in the wind. “What kind of fuckin’ horsepower…?”

“Did you clear your head adequately?”

Gladio sighs, taking slow steps up towards Ignis. “As much as I could. Directed some lost folks, too.” He rolls his shoulders, once. “I’m sorry I wasn’t --”

“That’s fine,” Ignis holds up a gloved hand to indicate understanding. “It’s been a difficult time for all of us.”

“Yeah,” Gladio mutters. “How’re the guests?”

“Well-tempered,” Ignis nods. “The Messenger arrived not too long ago.”

“Gentiana?” Gladio gently takes Ignis’ arm as they begin to make their way back into the citadel. “Oh, yeah … she’d want to be here. For Luna.”

Ignis hums, soft. “I’ve assigned her some security, same as all the others. Mostly mayors and dignitaries from the other Lucian settlements and cities. We’re expecting Cindy before nightfall.”

“Great, Prompto can help her out,” Gladio chuckles.

Ignis allows a quiet laugh of his own. “Oh, you should have seen his face when Aranea showed up.”

“Oh, yeah? I bet he -- Iggy.”

The advisor adjusts his glasses once more, a smile stretching across his scarred lips. “What.”

“Nothin’, you jackass.” He rolls his eyes. “C’mon, I wanna see if the kid’s done with that statue.”

“Indeed,” Ignis says. He lightly steps over a stray brick as they enter the building. Light streams in through any crack and crevice it can find, like stars falling, trapped in time, over the devastation from just a week before. Gladio swallows, with effort, and keeps Ignis at his pace as they navigate the hall. The advisor speaks again, after a few moments, “I think she’s made good progress. She sounded quite pleased with herself, several hours ago.”

“She actually _speaks_ to you?” Gladio wonders aloud, surprised. “She’s barely gotten a word in with me, and I’m the one watchin’ her, makin’ sure she doesn’t fall to her death.”

“Well,” the corner of Ignis’ lips quirk, “perhaps I am a touch more friendly than you.”

“Are you callin’ me out?” Gladio pretends to take offense at it. “I have a younger sister, you know. Kids, I know just how to handle.”

“No one is questioning your brotherly skills, Gladiolus.”

“That better not be the case --” He skids to a halt, eyes up. The sight steals the breath from his lungs, the strength from his voice. He can only sway, rooted to the spot, anchored only by Ignis' presence beside him.

“Gladio?” Ignis calls, sensing the abruptness in that pause. A hand comes to grip Gladio’s wrist, squeezing gently. “What’s the matter?”

“... Nothin’, just …” Gladio’s mouth runs dry as he peers up at the face looking down at them, features set in such uncanny resemblance and dark stone. The rest of the body is nowhere near being finished, but -- Noctis’ eyes are exactly the way he remembers them. “Iggy … it’s him.”

“Noct,” Ignis says softly. He smiles, wistful. “Does he look like himself?”

“Hell, it _is_ him. Without a damn doubt,” Gladio’s voice wavers. His shoulders tremble, all the way down his spine. It takes him a moment to realise he’s shedding tears and racking large sobs, but Ignis has already fished out a handkerchief from his pocket.

“Here.” Ignis dabs gently at Gladio’s cheeks, unseeing eyes filled with emotion. “He’s going to come back out that coffin if he sees you like this, screaming for you to stop.”

Gladio’s laugh is a strangled sound as more tears spring from brown eyes. “I wish he would… Gods, I _wish_ , Iggy.”

“I know.” Ignis pulls Gladio into a firm embrace, and holds him steady. “I know.”

They remain that way for quite some time.

Noctis peers curiously through the broken roof. Outside, the sun slowly sinks back under the horizon; the sky grows dark into another long night of mourning.

* * *

Cindy Aurum, still lingering on the outskirts, drapes a thick blanket over a complete stranger, face veiled by long dark hair. Her hand brushes over his shoulder, brief, but it is long enough to alert her to the alarming heat beneath his skin.

He says nothing of it, only flinches at her touch, and she decides that talking to the mute is a fruitless endeavour. She makes sure the seat belt on him is secure and finally prepares to make her way to Insomnia --

To drive into the greying horizon that waits for them wordlessly, holding its future a secret still.


	3. The Messenger Arrives

He wakes to the sudden jerk of a vehicle skidding to a halt. Someone is waving a gloved hand in his face, in the dark.

“Hey, rise and shine. I think ya might be runnin’ a fever,” is what the stranger says before Ifrit sits upright, leaning towards the dashboard to peer out the windscreen. The woman beside him stops mid-sentence, before clearing her throat. “A ‘thank you’ might be nice. I had to leave ol’ Jonesy to fend for himself because I thought ya might need a doctor.”

Outside, Insomnia is just as he remembers it: streetlights flickering uselessly, the roads wearing cracks like wrinkles on an old face, the smell of ash and smoke in the air. He watches faceless people stumbling about in the dark, finding their way home by way of dimly lit lamps, and feels his skin crawl at the memory of his last visit.

The blonde woman beside him snaps her fingers right by his ear, and he jumps. She is frowning when he turns to glare at her, lips curled in what seems to be disapproval. “Yeah, thought that might get your attention,” she says. “Are ya gonna pass out on me or somethin’?”

Ifrit feels a growl rumble low in the middle of his throat. He looks away, brushing the hair from his face and tucking a lock behind his ear. “No.”

“Oh, so ya _can_ speak!” She claps her hands together. “Great. Now, assumin’ ya weren’t just mutterin’ about Insomnia for nothin’ in ya sleep … here.” She reaches over – completely unnecessary, Ifrit muses – and opens the truck door. “I don’t like to pick up randos much, but you seemed pretty lost. Thought maybe a daemon got ya and ya hid out in the storeroom for cover. Who knows?” She eyes him, face inches away from his. “Ya don’t speak much, so I gotta make up my own stories.”

He leans away from her, one foot out the truck. “Oh, much worse. It’s none of your concern, however.”

She pulls back and unclips her seat belt. “I know that. By the way – d’ya got a name, or what?”

He turns his gaze toward her, slow. “You first.”

“Ugh. Cindy Aurum, at your service, _my lord_.” She kicks the truck door open on her side after removing the key from the ignition.

Ifrit stares at her, though his attention is elsewhere. A name? What kind of a name would his be, in a world of mortals who spit on the Infernian’s legacy?

“Uh,” she cocks her head, concerned at his silence. “You can’t remember? Were ya really injured in there?”

He shrugs, pulling the blanket over him a little tighter. “I … it doesn’t matter. I will take my leave of you, Cindy Aurum.” He moves to hop out of the truck before a hand comes to grip his shoulder, tight.

“Not so fast, honey.” Cindy’s gaze is soft when he turns back to her. “I know a lost soul when I see one.”

“You assume I even have one,” Ifrit replies coolly. “You owe me nothing. My presence will not do much but inconvenience you.” He slides off the seat, determined, and emerges into the open air. “Farewell.”

“Hey, _wait_ –”

He departs with haste, ignoring her calls, and leaves the mechanic far behind in the twilight. In the distance, the citadel’s lights shine like a beacon. Ifrit steals away into a nearby alley, letting the shadows envelope him. The path is narrow, but he manages.

Soon, he no longer hears the voice of Cindy, left to his own devices at last.

* * *

Overhead, thunder rumbles; the sky darkens with storm clouds approaching, bearing rain and the ruination of the rest of his day. _Blast it all to Hell. Did Bahamut simply resign me to wandering Eos for the rest of my days and call it punishment?_ Beneath his skin runs a tremor at the thought of cold weather. _This will not do._ He navigates the alleyways, taking wild turns left and right, hoping for shelter.

Eventually, he emerges in another section of the city. His eyes dart up and down the street, contemplative. What little life there is left in the Lucian crown city remains in the form of stragglers and returning citizens, pushing open loudly creaking doors and calling out to each other. Hurry. Let’s get inside before it gets too cold. Only a handful spare him brief glances before continuing their way, a hurried light in their eyes. Ifrit sighs, breath fogging, and casts his gaze to the citadel once more, when something arrests his attention.

In the distance, his eyes catch sight of an approaching group of people— emerging from the royal plaza. Crownsguard, Ifrit thinks bitterly. The uniforms are unmistakable, as are the weapons at their side. The men march vigilantly. Escorting— who?

Ifrit ducks out of sight. A wave of hysteria comes over him: _it’s not like they’ll recognise you for the Infernian. Why fear?_ Despite his own incredulity, he waits for them to pass anyway, crouched in the shadows. It is a relatively long wait, he finds— their footfalls come at a leisurely pace.

Then he hears someone speak.

“I have no need of private lodging. The advisor is kind to have offered.”

“That may be, but you’re a guest.” The tallest man of the company turns his head. Ifrit recognises him instantly— the man known as Gladiolus Amicitia. The scars adorning rugged visage paint an unmistakable picture. Ifrit bristles in his place, triggered by the memory of their battle, before the woman beside the Shield speaks once more.

“Of no importance,” she says, hands clasped together. “I am here only to pay my respects, and then to be on my way.”

Ifrit’s eyes narrow. _That voice. The way she sounds…_ He cranes his neck as they near, catching a glimpse—

“Lady Gentiana,” Gladiolus casts her a disapproving, yet gentle look. “With all due respect, you helped Noct a lot back then. Lucis owes you one. Hell, all of Eos. Let’s not forget the fact that you were by Lunafreya’s side all those years.”

Though her eyes remain closed, Gentiana’s head shifts, slight, in Gladiolus’ direction. Ifrit holds himself still, heart leaping furiously at the cage in his chest. _Shiva._

“Give yourself due credit as well, Mighty Shield. Your king would not have reached the throne without your blade, your arm—”

Ifrit’s breath lodges in his throat when she suddenly turns her head. He presses his back flat against the wall, watching the way she searches with unseeing eyes, directly at him—

“Lady Gentiana?” The Crownsguard have halted in their tracks, waiting for Gladiolus as he rouses the messenger from her trance.

 _Shiva. Gentiana?_ Ifrit swallows, with effort. For a moment, he thinks she will open her eyes—

And then she simply… shakes her head. In an instant, the entourage is on its way again, and Ifrit emerges from the shadows with his gaze glued to her back when they are far enough from his hiding spot.

He watches her until she is nothing but a speck in his vision, even as the rain comes in painful, icy pricks upon his face. Soon, she disappears out of sight, lost in Insomnia and lost to Ifrit once more.

* * *

Rhys drags his jacket hood over his head, ducked against the rain. His father’s instructions ring clear despite the rain hissing against his ears: _West gate. Bring tools for the truck._ Said tools are slung over his shoulder in a rugged knapsack, though it weighs heavier now with the added pressure of rainwater-soaked canvas. He keeps his eyes wide and forward, attempting to peer through the fog of rain. Just his luck, then.

He doesn’t know Insomnia the way his father does, he soon finds. The streets all look the same, he notes with a huff of frustration, and far less distinct from each other when shrouded with heavy rain. He does, however, know which way points west, and leans solely on this piece of information to take him to his destination. The truck had given way just as it passed the security checkpoint at the city perimeter. Rhys hopes silently that it’s beyond saving. A newer truck or car would suit them better for their new life here.

Here, in a city he’s only ever heard about through word of mouth, the radio, or his father’s sleepy mutterings. What little pictures he’d seen on the newspapers were not enough. He’d always fixated on pictures of the prince or the late King Regis, anyhow. What boy of six would think to admire Lucian architecture and wonder about the vastness of the capital city, when enthralled with stories of war, of magic, and Magitek?

That entertainment ceased to exist by the time he turned eight. Rhys shudders, both from the cold and from the memory of it— Mother, ruined by daemons, snatched away into the night. His father had fled into a rage, becoming a storm of his own making, tears rushing forth like a river bursting through a dam. Rhys learnt properly about the Starscourge, then, about the Oracle’s efforts against the darkness pouring out from Niflheim— suddenly, it had all seemed much less wondrous and impressive to him. Jonesy had never mentioned his mother’s name again.

Rhys sneezes noisily, already feeling well-acquainted with pneumonia. The umbrella in his other hand helps very little; his jeans are clinging to him in unpleasant places, and every gust of wind elicits a shiver beyond his control. He is squinting ahead, taking cautious, heavy steps, when a figure at the corner of his vision distracts his focus momentarily.

Despite the thickness of rain, Rhys can clearly see the stranger braving the rain on his own. His back is hunched slightly, arms tightly wound around himself. Long, dark hair, like a curtain, prevents Rhys from seeing his face. The picture of a stubborn man, testing the might of the gods. Idiot. The youngster jumps into action without hesitation, crossing the cobblestone street and calling out to the fool on the other side. “Hey, mister! Mister! D’ya need any help?!”

He doesn’t respond, only lifts one foot after the other. Heavy. An occasional shiver runs through him, visible enough for Rhys to know that he’s freezing. He jogs over, coming alongside the man, and nudges him gently with an elbow. The umbrella hovers over both their heads, a decent change— the man responds to this by abruptly stopping and raising his head.

Rhys doesn’t expect to see a glare behind all that hair. One rough swipe of the hand, and the man’s face is revealed. Eyes the colour of a sunset pierce right through him. “You don’t have to help me,” comes the response, smooth and heavy. “Be on your way and leave me be.”

“I’m not the one looking like a drowned sewer creature, sir,” Rhys says, adding the title as an afterthought. That glare is hot, even while standing in the middle of a rainstorm. “Your place is just down the street?”

The sunset eyes burn a little brighter. Then, unexpectedly, his gaze flickers away, up the street. Within a matter of seconds, they return to settle on Rhys— resigned. “No.”

“No?”

The taller man scowls down at him. “No. Now leave me.”

Rhys tilts his head. For a long moment, there is nothing but the hiss and roar of rain all around them. The sky grumbles at their strange stalemate, thunder rolling through the heavens. Finally, the teenager bristles back to life and snaps at the man— mostly because he’s freezing, too, and the weight of these tools are beginning to feel more burdensome than ever. “Look, I’ve got somewhere to go, so you’d better follow me quick, or I’m leavin’ you behind.”

The long-haired stranger gives him a look, as if to say, “What do you mean by that?” Rhys shrugs, pulling the knapsack a little tighter over his shoulder, and turns to head back the way he came from. “Come on. If you die out here, no one’s gonna care.”

He retraces his steps with ease, no longer walking against the direction of the rain. A few minutes pass, before Rhys turns to look over his shoulder, unable to hear the other man’s footsteps.

Burning eyes are watching him, but without the unkindness Rhys had seen just moments ago. Satisfied, he hangs back to make sure the umbrella gets them both, this time. A soft grunt of thanks reaches his ears, and Rhys watches the man draw to his full height, now adequately sheltered. There’s a funny air about this man, now that he doesn’t look so beaten down— if he wasn’t struggling in the rain on his own, dressed in rags, Rhys ventures that he could be part of the nobility; someone of high regard. He certainly talks like one. Glares like one, too.

The boy doesn’t ask or say a word, however. He doubts the man is in the mood for sudden, prying questions, either. For the remainder of their journey they trudge back towards the royal plaza in silence, with nothing but storm and wind swirling around them.

* * *

“You can hold up here for the night. There’s a spare room upstairs— first one on the left.”

Ifrit watches the boy step behind the counter and bend over to retrieve something. His eyes take only a short while to adjust to the warm glow and colour of the interior— the wide assortment of bottles and glasses give him a rough idea of what this place is and what it sells.

The wooden floorboard creaks under his weight as he approaches the counter, where the boy has disappeared behind. He is about to peer over the countertop when the boy suddenly shoots up, the clink and jangle of metal heralding his return. Rainwater is skittering off his hair, his shoulders— a look Ifrit is certain he shares as well— as the boy raises a set of keys in his hand.

“They work on all the rooms,” he says simply, but not unkindly. “You’re lucky. I managed to get the heater to work just this morning.”

Ifrit reaches out, tentative, to take the keys from him. A moment passes, and a sense of propriety returns to the Astral. “… Thank you.”

The boy blinks, seemingly surprised. “No problem. What’s your name, by the way? I’m Rhys.”

 _Names_. Ifrit shakes his head, and pulls the first one that comes to mind. “My friends call me Jin.”

“Jin… and no last name?” The boy doesn’t hide his curiosity. “Uh, sure.”

Ifrit’s shoulders lift in a brief shrug. “Does it truly matter to you, Rhys?”

The youngster, Rhys, rubs the back of his neck. “Guess not. You won’t steal anything… right?” He reaches for the knapsack, leaking water all over the countertop. “I’ve gotta go and get my dad from the west gate.”

Offense flares lightly at the edges of his mind. “You have nothing I could want,” Ifrit says simply, and makes his way towards the stairs without another word. He thinks he hears the boy muttering something under his breath before the door creaks open. The sound of rain slips into the place, like an angry ocean sitting right outside, and then the door slams shut.

Silence.

Ifrit finds the room easily. One turn of the key and the door is open to him; he slips inside and turns to lock it shut. A ragged sigh slips from him at last, and his shoulders sink in exhaustion as he turns around to survey his lodgings, however temporary they may be. A lamp sits on the desk across the room, the flame nearly reaching the end of the candle wick, and for a moment he watches the little thing jump and flicker, entranced. Clutching the keys close to his side, Ifrit makes his way over to the lamp.

He opens it up, old metal creaking. The flame welcomes him with a warmth he knows will not last for long. Suddenly, he is possessed by the urge to reach inside.

His free hand twitches.

Eventually, he decides against it. Instead, he drags the old thing to the edge of the desk, making sure to face the open side of it at the bed. The keys drop beside it, loudly.

Ifrit turns, brushing the hair from his face and shoulders, before letting himself sink into bed. He closes his eyes, feeling a strange heaviness settle on his back, but does not let his mind sever the ropes that tie him to the waking world, does not let himself drift. His heart flutters, frightened at his body’s weakness, and it is this fear that keeps him awake— awake enough to hear the window creak open somewhere behind him, the rain entering—

“ _Master!_ ” a voice cries out, a bursting sound.

The Infernian is on his feet in a split second, eyes wielding a threat— “Who dares?”

The woman before him, untouched by rain, immediately drops to her knees. “Sire,” she says, staring at the ground between them. Her voice quakes, hinting at a measure of fear. Or is it excitement that shakes her so? “It is I, Certus— do you not remember? I bow only to your will. You handpicked me out of thousands, plucked me from Solheim’s embrace, and gifted me with your fire.”

Ifrit towers over her, rainwater dripping with every step. At the mention of her name, his memory begins to make its return. “The Messenger,” he mutters, understanding.

“Your Messenger,” she corrects, head still bowed. Her hair is neatly pulled into a topknot, however, and Ifrit can see the edges of her visage. Familiar. Like the very first day they’d met. “I felt your presence leave the heavens and descend to Eos. I followed.”

“You fool.” A grimace follows his cold remark. He takes a step back. “Do you not know what they did to me? I am no longer one of the Six. Stripped of my gift, my power. You have wasted your time.”

Certus lowers into a full-on bow, forehead touching wood. “Do not speak such words, my lord. The Dragon King sent me—”

“ _Dragon King!_ ” Ifrit seizes Certus by the shoulders in one savage motion. She looks up, shaken by his strength and the boom of his voice. “So you take orders from the old lizard, now? Shed your pretense and tell me you are only here to ensure I finish my sentence! Fill not your mouth with lies, my _sweet_ Messenger!”

“No!” she cries out, hands coming to grip his forearms. Steel. He feels a slight tremor at her fingertips. “I remain loyal to you, as I have been for all our lifetimes. I am here to watch after you— until the time of judgment is nigh—”

“I have already been judged!” Ifrit releases her, shoving her to the ground. He rises to his feet, stepping away from her, and shuts the window with both hands. For a moment, he sees his own expression, snarling and leonine. Behind him, Certus hovers, perilously close. Before she can reach out to him, he is already putting more distance between them. “All of heaven knows that trial went swiftly. Cease your senseless rambling!”

“I will not leave you be!”

“Then you will be waiting on a dead man for a long time yet!” Ifrit swipes at the extinguished lamp, letting glass shatter and crack against the wall. What’s left of the candle wick drops onto the floor, rolling aside. His gaze chases it, brief, before he turns back to the Messenger. She remains where he’s left her, lips thinned. Resistance in her pleading eyes.

“Please, my lord,” she says, voice dropping. “Let me help you, if only for a moment.” She reaches out, but he refuses her with a swipe of his hand.

“Do not _touch_ me.” It is a warning— ember breathes hot in his voice.

Certus’ expression falters. She retracts her hand, holding it close to her heart, as if she’d just been scalded. “Very well. I apologise if I’ve offended you, Lord Ifrit.”

He looks away, taking steps back to the bed. The molten rage thrashing about in his chest subsides at her apology, but not enough to dry up completely.

“You have. Your presence reminds me of what it was like— being at the top of the world, calling fire with a whisper. Now I am this,” he gestures to himself, “and there is nothing I can do to reverse Bahamut’s punishment.”

“To turn back, or to move forward?” Certus says softly, shifting herself into a kneeling position as she watches him.

Ifrit snorts. Ever the sentimental one, she is. “Do not think to preach. You have no idea what it is I feel.”

“I would not dream of it, to lecture the Infernian.” A pause. “But you must have come to Insomnia for a reason.”

“None at all.” Ifrit shakes his head, remembering the woman who had brought him here. Cindy. “The mortal I encountered brought me here, believing me to be another faithful Lucian, come to pay respects to the Chosen King and his Oracle.”

“The procession begins in two days,” Certus supplies.

“And?” Ifrit waits.

“… I could take you inside, if you wish. Then I shall take you away.” She is keeping her head bowed, when he turns back. “Wherever you wish to go.”

“Take me back to the gates of heaven,” Ifrit murmurs, gaze settling on the Messenger. “Even now, I can still feel the thrum of your energy, your spirit. You carry a piece of me with you, still. Which means you still retain the Infernian’s power. Can you steal me away to the celestial once more?”

He catches the slight wince that grips her, at his request. “No, my lord.”

“Well then,” he drawls, gaze sliding back to the wall. “What good _are_ you to me?”

Her answer never comes. He doesn't look at her again for the rest of the night.

* * *

An hour later, the rain subsides at last. Storm clouds disperse, a thick curtain parting to reveal a clear night sky. At the edge of the city, a man makes his slow return home.

Prompto is inspecting the electrical outlet by the eastern gate when Cor stumbles through it, clutching his own bleeding arm to his chest. The younger man is startled for a second before instincts kick in, pushing him into motion: he hurries to the Marshal’s side, letting the man rest his uninjured arm over his shoulder and lean his weight. “Marshal! You look badly beaten— what happened out there?”

The Marshal answers only with a grunt at his inconvenience, rather than pain. “Niffs, tittering about outside Lestallum.” He takes heavy steps towards a nearby bench. “Stragglers. But so far out, beyond Gralea.”

“Magitek?” Prompto slowly lowers Cor onto the bench, grateful to be free of the Marshal’s weight. He takes a breath, holding his chin. “But that’s impossible. Daemons are drying up, left and right.”

“No,” Cor growls. “Not the tin soldiers. Actual human Niffs, the last of the Empire’s human infantry. They were trying to take control of a small settlement, apparently. I answered the call to assist and left Insomnia earlier this afternoon.” He leans back, jaw working. The pain throbs distantly, now, and he fixes his gaze on Prompto. “There were more than I’d anticipated.”

Prompto scratches his head, watching the Marshal slowly peel off his jacket. Blood drips down forearm, to his elbow, bright crimson in the headlights that Prompto had just gotten back up and running. “This far out?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said.” Cor bites on a sleeve and rips the fabric easily. Old thing; he’ll get another jacket tomorrow, probably. “But I heard them talking about Tenebrae, before engaging. I’ll need to head out in a couple of days. Follow this lead.”

“You’re injured,” Prompto points out. “Let’s get you to a doctor, first. Ignis and Gladio will probably wanna hear more about it, too—”

“Later.” Arm sufficiently wrapped, Cor gets to his feet. “Tomorrow. I’ll see you at the citadel. Let Ignis and Gladiolus know. No one should hear about this until further notice.”

Prompto slides off the bench, getting to his feet. For one reason or another, he offers a salute to Cor, who looks down at him strangely. “Yes sir!”

“At ease. I’m not your commanding officer.”

“Uh,” Prompto’s hand falls back to his side. _Where did that come from, Prompto?!_ “Right. You’ll, um— you’ll be alright on your own from here?”

Cor is already taking off into the night, hand waving absently. “Yeah. I know the way. Just point those headlights out at the road tonight and catch some sleep.”

Prompto swallows with effort, glancing out into the darkness beyond. Insomnia’s lights aren’t quite strong enough to illuminate anything beyond five large footsteps. Without another word, he gets to work, craning and turning the headlights positioned on either side of the gateway, metal whining angrily.

It’s the coldest night Insomnia's seen in ages. Prompto lets out a shuddering breath when he’s done, and casts a glance over his shoulder. Cor is long gone, leaving nothing but a trail of mystery for the gunman to mull over.

He looks down the lit path one last time, contemplative, before turning his heel and heading back into the inner city.


	4. As He Rests

In the morning, the sun shines as if rain had never come to Insomnia’s doorstep, casting gold upon weathered Lucian stone. The capital city comes alive at the touch of morning, glowing gentle in the early hours.

The people of Insomnia rise with it. They mill back and forth— an ebbing sea of enthusiasm and groundedness— to deliver bread, open coffee houses and hang their wares. Merchants usher in the best seafood from Galdin Quay, the finest leather and craft from Galahd, sweet-smelling flowers from the hills beyond Lestallum, and a Chocobo-renting outpost on the edge of the city. There is no longer dust and soot floating about in the air, and children take to the streets, imagining themselves on some vast adventure to take back the crown city in a time of war.

In the inner city, where the royal plaza glitters silver beneath the gaze of an adoring sun, Prompto wakes to the sound of muffled buzzing, murmuring against his pillow. A hand sleepily searches between sheets, lost in its aim, until it finds the slim device wedged between mattress and frame. Prompto’s eyes open, slow, as he drags the phone out of its unwitting hiding place.

The screen is bright with one name: Gladio. He blinks, bleary, before realisation strikes him across the face—

“Aah!” He sits up in a spectacular flurry of pillow and blanket, still clutching the phone. A hurried glance out the window tells him an estimate of the time— and didn’t Cor say they’d meet in the morning?

Prompto stumbles out of bed, just as he drags a thumb in a straight line across the screen of his device. Gladio’s voice rolls like thunder in his ear. “You just woke up, didn’t you?”

“I’m on my way!” shrieks the flustered blonde. He reaches for a pair of discarded pants hanging off the top of the chair at his work desk. “Give me like, ten minutes! Please! Is the Marshal there yet?”

Gladio makes a sound that skitters close to disapproval. “You think?”

One foot in, Prompto sways violently for a moment. He struggles to regain his balance, and finally elects to fall into bed. He thrusts his other leg in, and begins wiggling his hips with all the energy of a child suffering from a sugar high. “Ten. Minutes. See ya.”

Before Gladio can berate him further, Prompto tosses the phone aside and presses the red button. He eventually gets back on his feet, zipper pulled up, and pulls on a shirt. He is out of the apartment in minutes, gaze glued anxiously to the watch around his wrist.

The jog to the citadel takes a short amount of time. His apartment is tucked away at the far end of the royal district, a few streets from the royal plaza itself, and as a result he is able to enjoy a fair bit amount of peace and quiet. The rest of the people populate the middle and outer districts, since Ifrit’s work had hit the inner city hardest and marred it beyond recognition with his rampage and fire.

Now, though— Prompto eyes the workers digging through fallen buildings and what’s left of the debris on the street, clearing way for vehicles shuddering along the roads, seeking to push further in with supplies and a myriad of other necessities for the procession happening tomorrow evening. Now, things are being done to help Insomnia recover.

He thinks of the Niff soldiers Cor had mentioned the previous night, and picks up the pace. Weaving through the crowd, a large mass of onlookers bearing gifts murmuring with excitement at something just beyond the citadel gates, Prompto cranes his neck to get a better look.

Through the grills, he sees what they’re seeing: purple banners bearing the Caelum insignia alongside silver ones that carry the Fleuret name are swaying and fluttering gently in the wind. They’re obviously new— Prompto hadn’t seen them yesterday, and he’d been hanging around the citadel all day. Touched by the morning light, the silk shines almost proudly. Prompto feels a distant ache rise in his chest.

The Crownsguard waves him through when they see his face. He squeezes his way in, half-moon teeth flashing in a grateful smile, before breaking into a run across the plaza and up the steps.

* * *

The throne room had been a priority alongside the ceremonial hall before the works began. Where it once bore scars and wounds, the room now stands as good as new. At the top of the dais sits the king’s chair, polished and dusted as if someone is poised to sit upon it soon.

Prompto wishes that were indeed the case. He averts his gaze and heads for the group of men waiting for him. Gladio turns his head and gestures Prompto over with the wave of a hand.

He makes a quick half-bow as he comes to settle beside Ignis. Cor and Gladio exchange looks with each other, before the Marshal clears his throat like a starting signal. “I made some calls last night, tried to dig up what I could,” he says. “We haven’t heard anything out of Tenebrae yet, but the Niffs had its name on their tongues.”

“Gentiana left of her own accord, apparently?” Ignis brings a hand to his chin. “Or perhaps she did not stay long enough to hear anything about this. Strange. Fortunate, maybe.”

“Whatever it is,” Gladio says, crossing his arms, “she’s safer here with us. I’m glad I dispatched some of the Crownsguard to watch after her. Nothin’s gonna get past them.”

“Keep that going,” Cor nods. “And tighten security from now till the end of the week. I don’t want us taking chances. This is too delicate. To cause panic right after everything’s settling down…” The hard look in his eyes finishes the rest of his thought.

Ignis bristles in place. “You think they would disrupt…?”

“Who knows.” Cor’s gaze travels up to the ceiling, fixating on some indistinct spot. “Niflheim’s dust, but those men out there— they talked like they still had something to fight for.”

Prompto finally finds his voice. “Like what?”

“Dunno.” Cor heaves a sigh. Eyes the colour of cold crystals flicker in the gunman’s direction, tearing away from the stained glass and murals hanging over them at last. “I’ve got someone in mind that I wanna rope in, I’ll be seeing them tonight.”

“Lucian?” Gladio inquires.

Cor answers with a shake of his head. “Freelancer. Sort of.”

“Can they be trusted?” Ignis tilts his head, turning in Cor’s direction.

“Yeah. I’ll bet on it. Anyway,” he says, “I’ll take off after the procession is done with, tomorrow. Everything else from now till then— they should run as per the usual.”

Gladio nods with a soft hum, eyes closed for a moment. “I’ll run through security for the dignitaries from Tenebrae, and do a quick check on them. Then I’ll brief the Crownsguard.” When they open again, he is looking at Prompto. “Prom. You should get together with Cindy and work on the perimeter. She called in last night— so hop to it.”

“Y-yeah.” He tugs at his collar.

A smirk finds its way onto Gladio’s face. Cor lifts an eyebrow, glancing between Shield and sharpshooter, bearing an unspoken question in his eyes as the group comes to an awkward stalemate.

“You still like her, don’t you,” comes the unwitting statement from Ignis. There is the slightest lilt in his voice— it is all the indication Prompto needs to know he’s suffering another teasing moment.

“ _Whaaaaat?_ I like everybody.”

“Indeed. Some, you like just slightly more than the rest.”

“Okay. Okay!” Prompto waves his hands, swatting madly. “This conversation is over!”

A wave of laughter ripples through the group, the sound of it echoing off marble and stone. Prompto thinks he’s never seen Cor smile before.

_Boy. What a day it already is._

* * *

“Wow,” Rhys’ jaw drops, “you look like shit. Did you even sle—”

“Boy!” Jonesy chides, so suddenly that for a moment, it looks as though his moustache is about to drop and fall away. “That’s not how you speak to strangers. Or your elders. Or anyone in general.”

Rhys shrugs, and gestures at Ifrit as he pads down the stairs, as if to prove his point and say, see for yourself. His father, whose forehead is glistening with nervous perspiration, turns to their new guest and offers an apologetic half-bow. “Don’t mind him. He’s like that, especially when he’s hungry.”

“So I’ve learned, especially in the midst of a rainstorm.”

“He’s got no manners as well, Pops.” Rhys is grinning from behind the counter, far too comfortable in the presence of a stranger. There is a challenging look in his eyes. “You’ll learn that soon enough.”

Jonesy makes a noise and violently wipes his hands on the apron around his neck, plagued by unseen grime and dirt. “Be that as it may, this man is our guest. I’m terrified of how comfortable you quickly get around people you barely know.”

“Hey.” Rhys’ brows come together at his father’s remark, wit banking down like coals losing their flame, just a touch. “The Shield is gonna come back because of my stellar customer service skills. You don’t know how lucky you are, Pops.”

Jonesy harrumphs, and promptly turns to Ifrit. His eyes sweep over Ifrit, from top to bottom. He takes a moment to swallow, with effort. “Well, good sir. Uh—”

“Jin,” Ifrit interjects. “Away with the formalities. You have my thanks for allowing me to reside here. I assure you, I will not linger too long.”

“Jin.” The man repeats it several times, as if afraid he’ll forget within the next minute. “That’s, uh… yes. Good to know. But I don’t mean to chase you at all, but that’s really not why I’m… what I mean is, stay however long you need to,” he punctuates with a reassuring nod. “I have many friends who were displaced during the— the war, the darkness, what have you—” Ifrit’s nose wrinkles as Jonesy approaches the end of his tirade, “—but there’s nothing like the combined effort of the human spirit! Community, eh?”

“Community,” the Infernian echoes. He inclines his head. “Indeed. Mankind is nothing if not persistent. Resilient.”

“Aha!” Jonesy’s eyes glitter with recognition. “Right you are. Even the dreaded Infernian, with all his fire and taste for chaos, he could not hold back the dawn, could he? No, we have our greatest king to thank for that, yes.”

Ifrit straightens his back. Rhys’ eyes are fixed on him, though the boy’s hands are absently cleaning the counter with a tattered dishrag. Curious.

“Yes,” Ifrit says at last. “Noctis was the best of us. I simply couldn’t forget him, even if I tried.”

* * *

Later that day, as the horizon darkens with the approach of another night, Ifrit decides to show a measure of gratitude. Certus had insisted, hovering over his shoulder closer than a shadow, and promised it would be a worthwhile investment to be “decently mannered”, much to the Infernian’s chagrin.

The middle-aged merchant— and now bar owner— watches him with unveiled surprise as he reaches for the broom tucked away behind the main door. He trails after Ifrit, sputtering weak protest, “You don’t have to trouble yourself, Jin! That is entirely unnecessary—”

Ifrit waves the tempting urge to agree away. His mood has softened around the edges, losing its bite, and he attributes it to the absence of the youngster. Friends, Jonesy had said. He needs them if he’s going to adjust to living here for long.

“No, I insist,” he grinds out, already sweeping away at dust and dirt. “It would be unbecoming if I didn’t. My upbringing would go to absolute waste.”

Jonesy’s voice is feeble. “You seem like a … man of considerable repute and culture. Where were you— where did you come from, if I may?”

Ifrit doesn’t turn, but simply barks his response over the rough sound of the broom scraping across the floorboard. “Not far from here.”

“Ah, then the—Lucian provinces? And your family—?”

“Long gone.”

The silence stretches, almost painfully. And then: “I am sorry to hear that. Did you lose them to the daemons?”

“No.” Ifrit progresses to the halfway mark, making quick work of dust and stray insects. “I left. And that is all I wish to say about it.”

“Oh. Yes.” He can almost hear Jonesy swallow his nerves. “Forgive me for prying.”

* * *

In the deep of the night, a man makes his way across Insomnia. He barely makes a sound, the years having trained him well, and yet the woman standing at the edge of the roof of the apartment complex puffs out as he approaches, voice loud and clear, “Evening, Marshal.”

“Highwind.” Cor grinds to a halt. Aranea turns, expectant. “Thanks for meeting me here.”

“It’s romantic and cozy. I’d say you’re a man of taste.”

His scoff is sharp. “The perfect place for private conversation, obviously.”

“Yeah, I was kind of going for that,” Aranea says, gesturing for him to join her. “Great view. Lots of patches of debris and wreckage. It’s a charming city, your Insomnia.”

“It’s gained some grit over the years.” Cor folds his arms over his chest. “Dirtier, too. But Insomnia can clean up pretty good. Can’t say the same for the other side.”

“Oh?” Aranea blinks at him, almost innocently. “And what have your sharp ears picked up?”

Cor shakes his head, a grave shadow crossing his face. “Our friends in white seem to be on the move, stealing into Lucian territory.”

Aranea registers this with a dark curl of her lips. “Intriguing. How close?”

“Lestallum. They fought hard.”

“Shit.” The grimace is fully realised. She looks back out across the city. “You need to figure this out quietly, don’t you.”

“That’s the plan.” Cor does the same, sweeping his gaze over the expanse. “But only once the funeral procession is concluded and formalities are over and done with. I need eyes and ears out there, and I don’t have enough Crownsguard to order an investigation while maintaining protection of the city.”

“Mm. And … also because I have a giant imperial airship.”

Pause. “You have a giant imperial airship.”

Their eyes meet. There is a fire that burns as bright as ice in Cor’s gaze. Aranea chews on her bottom lip thoughtfully.

“Fine. We’ll be in touch. And I’ll get my men to reinforce the perimeter guard while we’re here.”

Cor already has his back turned by the time she finishes talking, making his way to the exit.

“Thank you. If your pockets aren’t too light, maybe we’ll talk about payment another time.”

“Tch.” Aranea’s grimace lightens. “What do you take me for?”

* * *

The next day, Ifrit finds himself in the company of the merchant and his son once more, on his way to the citadel.

This time, the streets are swarming and spilling over with people— a black ocean sighing and murmuring with the unmistakable song of grief. It is palpable, thrumming in the air— the entire world is laying King Noctis to rest. Crownsguard members, grim-looking, are ushering the citizenry through alternate entrances. Jonesy is sharp enough to figure out which one will take them inside fastest.

It is an imposing sight, the home of the Lucian kings. Ifrit thinks absently of Ardyn, of his Scourge-stained eyes, and loses himself in his musings. Rhys unceremoniously reaches out to seize him by the wrist, tugging him along. The touch is unwelcome, and Ifrit makes it known.

“If you lose your way in here, there is no way you’re gonna be able to find us until _tomorrow_ ,” Rhys bites back. “Now c’mon. We’re almost at the front.”

At the front, where people are granted a full, unobstructed view of Noctis himself. Ifrit cranes his neck; the dark quality of the stone commands the people’s respect, it seems. Even in death, the wandering gaze of the young Caelum inspires some emotion. Several people within Ifrit’s earshot have already broken down in tears. Others are simply awestruck. Distantly, Ifrit hears the low rumble of doors closing shut. The ocean is hushed into reverent silence.

For a moment, Ifrit expects the unveiled statue to speak.

Instead, a young man takes the stage, flanked by the King’s Shield. There is a certain humility about him – quite unlike Rhys, who has finally released Ifrit’s wrist from captivity – and he pulls off his cap to scrounge for a piece of paper stowed away inside. When he speaks, his voice is youthful but bears the weight of the entire citadel.

“My name is Talcott Hester.”

At that moment, Ifrit feels the phantom weight of someone else’s gaze on him. Neither Rhys nor his father pay him any mind, fixated on the young man delivering his solemn eulogy. He turns his head, slow, trying to find the source of this newfound attention.

Eyes—blazing emeralds—flash between faces.

 _Ifrit_. Her voice rings clear within the chamber of his mind. He jerks, stepping backward; someone behind him makes a noise of complaint. He stares deeply into her face, lost for a moment.

And then he is turning his back to her, slipping through whatever cracks he can find or force open in the congregation, and wades his way out of the ceremonial hall. Escape, he finds, is his only option now. Somewhere behind him, Talcott Hester’s voice reaches far and wide.

“The darkness was not enough. May our king sleep with the knowledge that Lucis will shine brighter than ever.”


End file.
